CHAPTER 17
WHEN THEY GOT home on Friday night, the phone was ringing.
“I’ll get it,” Mindy said, sprinting into the kitchen.
Jim dragged their bags through the living room, then plopped down on the couch and switched on the television. Jim Jr. sat in the armchair and took up a handheld baseball game. Jim started to drift off when he heard the phone ring again.
“Mindy,” he yelled, “I thought you were going to get it?”
He muted the television, heard Mindy speaking in her grown-up telephone voice.
“Hello, Hood residence,” she said.
“Hello,” she said again. “Hello?”
She came running into the living room as though someone were chasing her.
“Who was it?” Jim asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They hung up. Both times.”
“Huh,” Jim said.
“Daddy, I’m scared,” Mindy said, climbing into his lap.
“Why, honey? It was probably just a wrong number.”
“What if it was him?”
“If he was going to kill us, he wouldn’t call first,” Jim Jr. said, looking up from his game. “Unless maybe he wanted to make sure we were home.”
Mindy stifled a little scream. Jim started to reprimand his son but stopped when he heard the phone ringing again.
“Let me go this time,” he said, lifting Mindy off his lap.
But when he got to the kitchen, instead of answering, he pulled the cord from the phone and took the receiver off the hook. Then he lowered the volume on the answering machine, hit Play, and listened to a long string of hang ups.
Maybe Jim Jr. was right, he thought. Maybe Beauchamp wants to make sure I’m home.
He toured the house, checking that the windows and doors were all double locked.
Back in living room, he found his children sitting exactly as he’d left them, looking anxious and expectant.
“Let’s have some fun this weekend,” he said. “They’re going to hold a fair at the beach tomorrow. Ferris wheels and game booths and cotton candy. How’d you like that?”
The boardwalk was crowded with people queuing up at the game booths and food booths and fortune-telling booths. Beyond the boardwalk, families spread out on the sand, the children building castles and forts, the adults scouting for shells.
Jim Jr. tugged on his father’s sleeve and pointed to a shooting gallery.
“Can I, Dad? Please? I promise I’ll give Mindy my prize.”
“I can win my own prize,” Mindy said.
“Sure,” Jim said. “We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?”
“Me too?” Mindy asked. “I want to play, too.”
“Both of you,” Jim said. “When you’re done, we’ll find something to eat.”
The game involved shooting duck cutouts with an air gun. Jim always marveled at how his son, whose grades demonstrated no great ability to focus, could lose himself instantly in the most trivial competition. Mindy eyed her brother, let him go first, tried to best him with every shot. Jim watched them, thinking this was the first real family day they’d had since Bonnie died. It was the first day they had nothing to do but be a family. No errands to run. No people to visit or entertain. Life would be good again, he thought. It would just take time.
In the end, Jim Jr. won a rubber whale and Mindy a stuffed porcupine.
They continued farther down the boardwalk and found a booth that sold pizza cones and funnel cakes. Jim bought three of each. They were eating and leaning against a railing when he spotted Beauchamp, or someone who could easily pass for Beauchamp, watching them from a distance. Jim nearly choked on his food. He stood up straight to get a better view, felt his gun pressing against his side.
He managed to stay calm while they finished their meal, talking in a cheery voice about nothing in particular and stealing the occasional glance, trying to determine if the person in question really was Beauchamp. The man was the right size and shape, and he seemed to return Jim’s interest, but he was too far off to be sure; he might just be a stranger who wondered why Jim kept looking his way.
“Let’s keep walking to the end,” he told Mindy and Jim Jr. “You kids can run ahead if you want. Just don’t run so far that you can’t see me.”
He watched them go, then pivoted with the intention of staring down Beauchamp, if it was Beauchamp. But the man was gone. He’d vanished, like the villain in a movie. Jim stood on his tiptoes and searched as far as he could see, but there was no trace. How could a man that tall and broad just disappear? At the very least, Jim should have been able to spot the hunting cap bobbing above the crowd. He wondered if his mind had been playing tricks, if all the sleepless nights since Bonnie died were catching up with him.
* * *
Back home, Jim checked the answering machine. This time there was a message. He looked around to make sure the children were out of earshot, then pressed Play. He recognized Beauchamp’s voice immediately:
“I’ll be at your office on Monday morning, and don’t think you can brush me off ’cause I will sink you.”
Jim listened to the message a second time before he erased it. His mind wasn’t playing tricks: Beauchamp was coming for him.
CHAPTER 18
BRUCE BEAUCHAMP PARKED his rusty Nissan pickup among the BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes in the lot outside a four-story glass and steel building. This was a part of town he didn’t know well, a part he associated with fat cats and corporate crime.
He set his sunglasses on the dashboard, looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then licked his palm and tamped down a cowlick sticking straight up from the center of his head.
He spotted four security cameras before he’d reached the automatic revolving door. The marble lobby featured a fountain and a half-dozen ficus trees.
A Muzak version of the Eagles’ “Hotel California” played through hidden speakers.
Hood Realty was located on the third floor. Beauchamp pressed the elevator button, then decided to burn off some energy by taking the stairs.
At first glance, Jim Hood’s office looked and smelled like a doctor’s waiting room. There were potted plants in every corner, silver-framed photos of luxury properties hanging on the walls, a mild odor of potpourri. It was the kind of place that tried hard not to offend and ultimately made no impression at all. The middle-aged receptionist in her beige pantsuit fit right in. She was working on a crossword puzzle and didn’t seem to notice Beauchamp enter. He wished he’d worn something fancier—not a suit, necessarily, but maybe a V-neck sweater instead of his plaid button-down. Maybe she would have noticed him then. He walked over to her desk, cleared his throat.
“My name is Bruce Beauchamp,” he said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Hood.”
She smiled without looking up, pointed to a door on the opposite side of the waiting area.
“He’s expecting you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
He felt off his game, out of his element. He turned his back to her, took a moment to gather himself, then marched into Jim’s office and shut the door behind him. Jim was sitting at a large oak desk, studying some kind of spreadsheet. A pencil pusher, Beauchamp thought. He doesn’t stand a chance. Jim moved back in his chair, gestured for Beauchamp to sit. Beauchamp shook him off.
“This won’t take long,” he said, leaning forward with both palms on desk. “I delivered on my end, but you—”
Jim held up a hand and smiled.
“I understand,” he said. “I had some cash flow problems, but I’m delivering now.”
He opened the center drawer of his desk, still smiling. Beauchamp stood up straight and seemed to relax. Without saying another word, Jim pulled out his .9mm handgun and fired twice into Beauchamp’s forehead. Beauchamp fell straight back, landing with an impact that shook every object in the room. Jim walked around the desk, stood over Beauchamp, and fired five more times into his chest. He heard a scurrying in the waiting area. He rushed over to h
is filing cabinet and took out a second handgun wrapped in a towel. Careful not to touch the weapon directly, he placed it in Beauchamp’s right hand and folded the large man’s fingers around the handle and trigger.
Outside, he found the receptionist gone and the front door wide open. He drew a few deep breaths, then picked up the phone.
“911, what’s your—”
“Help me,” Jim cut her off, his voice booming and hysterical. “The man who killed my wife came to my office. He pulled a gun. I shot him. He isn’t moving. Hurry. I’m begging you.”
He hung up, pleased with his performance, and stood watching the blood pool around Beauchamp’s head.
CHAPTER 19
KRISTINA HARING, JIM’S receptionist, sat on the edge of the lobby’s fountain, too distraught to feel the cold spray hitting the back of her neck.
“I’m dizzy,” she told the plainclothes officer. “It’s like I’m fighting for every breath.”
“Just take it nice and easy, ma’am,” the officer instructed. “The incident is over. You’re safe now.”
“The incident?” she repeated. “Forgetting your wallet at the supermarket is an incident. A shootout at work is … I don’t know what it is.”
The officer pressed on.
“How many shots did you hear?” he asked.
She shut her eyes, tried again to suck in a deep breath.
“First there were two,” she said. “I ducked down behind my desk. Then I don’t know how many I heard. They came one on top of the other. I must have run. I don’t even remember how I got down here.”
“Have you talked to Mr. Hood since?”
“No. I assumed … I figured he was …”
“Did you know he kept a gun in his office?”
“I had no idea. This is last thing I ever expected. Jim’s clients are all …”
“Rich?”
“Upstanding. And it’s not like this is a cash business. I just can’t imagine why anyone would target Jim. The man’s been through so much.”
“How would you describe Mr. Hood?” the officer asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Does he have a temper? Have you ever seen him blow up at someone? At you?”
“My god, no. I can’t even imagine it. He’s the most even-keeled person I’ve ever met. There are times I wish he’d show a little more emotion.”
“Are you saying he’s cold?”
“No, I’m not saying that. But he’s always in control of himself. At least at work he is.”
“And you weren’t able to hear any of their conversation before the shooting started?”
“No, but there couldn’t have been much talk. He’d only been in there a minute. Maybe not even.”
* * *
“Have you had any other contact with Mr. Beauchamp since the trial?” Detective Kyle Davis, a fifteen-year veteran of Homicide, asked Jim.
“No, none,” Jim said.
“Not even by phone?” Detective Paul Greene, Davis’s rookie partner, asked.
Jim shook his head. They were standing in the hall outside his office while forensics pored over the crime scene. Jim’s eyes were red around the rims, and he seemed to be marching in place, as though his body had become one long twitch.
“And he had no feud with your family?” Davis asked.
“I’m telling you, I never saw him before today.”
“So he just showed up here with a gun after he’d been acquitted of murdering your wife?” Greene asked.
“My god,” Jim said, as though he hadn’t heard the question, “I killed a man.”
He pressed his back against a wall, struck himself hard in the forehead with an open palm, and kept hitting himself until Davis grabbed his wrists.
“Why don’t you take time to gather yourself?” Davis said. “Go home and lie down for a bit. We’ll talk later.”
“All right,” Jim said, blinking furiously and staring at the floor. “I guess I’ll do that.”
“I can have someone drive you if you want,” Davis offered.
“No, I’ll be okay,” Jim said.
The detectives watched him scuffle off toward the elevator. Greene, puzzled, turned to Davis.
“You bought that performance?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Davis said.
“Shouldn’t we keep pressing him? Isn’t he more likely to slip up now, before he’s had time to think?”
“Maybe, but you can’t catch someone in a lie if you don’t know the truth. Let’s gather the facts before we do anything else.”
Greene followed Davis into Jim’s office. There were lab techs bustling about, dusting the walls and furniture, gathering fibers from the carpet. The detectives stood over Beauchamp, examining his wounds, taking notes on the position of his body.
“I guess it could be self-defense,” Greene said.
“How do you figure?” Davis asked.
“Beauchamp pulls a gun, but Hood is faster,” Greene began. “He fires twice from behind his desk. Beauchamp staggers but doesn’t go down. He’s a big guy. He raises his gun again. Hood fires and keeps firing until Beauchamp falls.”
“It’s a possibility,” Davis said. “Just not a very likely one.”
“Why not?”
“Two reasons. First, Beauchamp, the career criminal who’s almost definitely killed before, is the one who walks into the room and pulls a gun, but he doesn’t get off a single shot? While Hood, the real estate geek with no priors, manages to empty his weapon? Doesn’t smell right.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What’s your second reason?”
“In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never seen a gunshot victim fall straight back without having his weapon knocked from his hand.”
“Beauchamp is a big man.”
“I’ve seen them all sizes. Beauchamp would be the first, and I’m suspicious of firsts.”
Greene thought it over.
“Okay,” he said, “so maybe self-defense is a reach.”
“A pretty far reach,” Davis agreed. “But that doesn’t make the case a slam dunk. There were two people in this room, and only one knows what really happened. And he’s about to hire some very expensive lawyers.”
CHAPTER 20
DAVIS AND GREENE drove north to break the news to Sharon Beauchamp, the victim’s widow. Neither detective was surprised to find her at home in the middle of the afternoon. Sharon was only forty-five, but drug use and decades of hard living and poor nutrition had yellowed her teeth and shriveled her skin. She came to the door wearing ripped leggings and a long gray sweatshirt. The cigarette in her mouth was mostly ash.
Davis held up his badge.
“We’re here about your husband,” he said.
“Who else would you be here about?”
She waved them in, cleared coupon flyers and magazines and a dirty breakfast bowl from the couch, then gestured for them to sit. She dropped into a hard-backed chair, took one look at their faces and said: “He’s dead, ain’t he?”
Greene, caught off-guard by her matter-of-fact tone, let Davis take the lead.
“If you mean your husband,” the senior detective said, “then yes, he is.”
Sharon lit a new cigarette with the butt of the old one. Any object left lying around served as an ashtray: empty cans, the sole of a worn-out shoe, a cereal bowl, a coffee mug. The trailer smelled like its windows hadn’t been opened in months. Greene wanted to take the conversation outside, but he knew Sharon would be less likely to cooperate with neighbors watching.
“That’s who I mean,” she said. “I had a bad feeling this morning. I told him not to go.”
“Told him not to go where?” Davis asked, curious to see how much he could tease out of her before she started asking questions of her own.
“Where I’m guessing you found him,” she said. “In that prick’s office. Or somewhere nearby.”
“Which prick
would that be, ma’am?”
“Call me Sharon. I was already feelin’ old. Now I’m a widow to boot.”
“Sharon,” Davis corrected. “Who was it your husband had gone to see?”
“I’m guessing you know that already, but I understand why you gotta ask. His name’s Hood. Jim Hood. And he played my husband for a big fat fool.”
“How’s that?”
Davis kept his questions deliberately short: Sharon was off and running on her own, and he didn’t want to slow her down. Greene took mental notes.
“Look, I know what it is you want to know, so I’ll just come out and give you everything I got. Hood said he’d pay Bruce to kill his wife. Twenty-five grand up front, plus another twenty-five once it was done. Well, it was done. Bruce nearly went away for it, and he kept his mouth shut about Hood all through the trial. That deserves a bonus if you ask me, but Bruce never even saw that second payment. He went there today to get it.”
Greene fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Sharon didn’t seem to realize she’d confessed to multiple felonies, from withholding information about a crime to aiding and abetting a murderer, though it would be nearly impossible to make any charge stick since her husband had been acquitted.
“Your husband told you all of this?” Davis asked.
“He more than told me: I saw that first twenty-five. Of course it’s all gone now, and I don’t got a thing to show for it. Hell, I still got two payments to make on this sorry-ass trailer. We were supposed to put that money towards a real house. Not that I believed it would ever happen. This sardine can’ll be my tomb.”
Her voice was nonchalant, as though she were complaining about a slight hike in the price of gasoline.
“How did your husband come to know Hood?” Davis asked.
“Bruce did some work for him a while back. Legit work, on one of his properties.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Maybe ten years back. Bruce had just gotten out. Again. Jim looked like a real hero then, giving an ex-con a second chance when no one else would. He probably hired Bruce because he was an ex-con.”